I caught up with the excellent K. Winder today, and remembered this little dash of poem I wrote after we spent a glorious night together in Eastham. (Yes, it was just as exciting as it sounds.) Please try not to take my toast boasts seriously. (TOAST BOASTS!)

Thinking about

the morning we spread jam
and Kathryn’s rendition was abysmal
(a fact she noted, that we laughed at) —

her toast was potholed
& without dignity—
it had the mark of the knife

all over it (much unlike mine:
velvety, with butter undetectable
underneath) & if we’d tried

we could’ve conversed across the table
through her meal: eloquently
regarding each other through bread

turned toast by voltage—toast
our ambrosial breakfast, our badly buttered goodbye,
that single-serve meal to last us, to last.